Poisoned With Love
by GrimalkinMessor
Summary: Barty Crouch Jr. manages to escape that night after the graveyard, only to come back as Voldemort's right hand. With a competent Death Eater running the show, Harry's rescue mission for Sirius doesn't go well. Now captured by Voldemort, who now knows what Harry is, he needs to be contained. Perhaps Dumbledore was onto something when he said that love was the greatest weapon of all.
1. Change of Staff

Skeletal, bleach white fingers twirled an equally pale wand between them as Voldemort regarded the man prostrated on the cold floor in front of him. "You may rise, Bartimaeus."

Barty fluidly straightened from his bow to lock eyes with the serpentine man before him, gaze unafraid and reverent. "You wished to speak with me, my Lord?"

"Yes," Voldemort murmured. "I plan to have Harry Potter retrieve the prophecy for me tonight. I expect you arrive at the ministry early and wait for him, then return to me once you have prophecy. Do not engage in combat unless absolutely necessary."

Barty did not hesitate. Barty did not stop to ask questions. He merely knelt again at his Lord's feet, head hung low. "Yes, my Lord. I will not fail you."

"I know you won't."

Voldemort knew that Barty was the best man for the job. His most loyal follower—rivalled only by Bellatrix, of course—would give him nothing less than perfection. Barty Crouch Jr. was the only Death Eater who knew of his horcruxes. Not the amount or the hiding places or even the objects, but Barty knew that his Lord had split his soul more than once. And it had been Barty himself to bring the subject matter up! He'd known then that Barty held no lingering affection towards his old family, stuck so foolishly in their light-sided beliefs. Horcruxes were notoriously _dark_ magic, and for Barty to have already read enough about them to bring the matter up to his Lord's attention, well, Voldemort no longer held any doubt of Barty's intentions.

After all, Barty was the one who sought him out. Barty was the one to brand his symbol back into the sky. Barty was the one to keep Pettigrew in check and nurse his fragile body back to health. Barty was the one to orchestrate Voldemort's return to his former glory.

And it would be Barty that made sure that the prophecy was retrieved.

No, Bartimaeus would not fail him. Voldemort was certain of it.

§

️

Harry was in the middle of his History of Magic OWL when his scar began to hurt. That was all the warning he got before the room around him vanished, the desks and faint sound of quills scratching against parchment gone in the face of deafening silence and a long, dark hallway. It was just like the hallway in his dreams, and then he was running, desperate for whatever was at the other, even if he had no clue what it was.

There was a door there at the end of the hall now, and Harry's heart picked up. He burst through it only to zero in on the scene before him with unconcealed horror.

It was Voldemort. Not only that, but he had Sirius. Voldemort was torturing him.

"I'm going to ask you one last time." Voldemort began as he relinquished the curse. He was prowling around Sirius like a predator circling prey.

"You'll kill me before I tell you where it is." Sirius rasped out fiercely. His voice was hoarse from screaming and his entire body was trembling in exhaustion.

"Oh, I will. But first you will fetch it for me." Voldemort lifted his wand once more. " _Crucio_."

Sirius let out a choked yell, and Harry's insides twisted violently. Harry choked out a furious shout, and then he was falling out of his chair, in the testing room once more. Eyes wide and wild, he looked up to see a sea of concerned and perplexed eyes on him, and the Professor crouched in front of him. Harry's chest heaved and his blood raced with adrenaline.

"Mr. Potter, are you alright?"

Harry hastily scrambled to his feet. "I-I...I don't feel well. I think I just need to lay down for a bit."

With that, Harry flew out of the room like a bat out of hell, determined to get to the hospital wing and inform McGonagall about what he'd seen. She could tell the Order and then Sirius would be saved, and everything would be fine. It had to be.

Only when he arrived at the hospital wing, all the beds were empty. Madame Pomfrey was turning down the sheets to the cot that had held an over-stunned Professor McGonagall not long ago.

"Where's Professor McGonagall?" Harry blurted out loudly.

"Don't shout!" Madame Pomfrey scolded at once. She huffed and smoothed down the covers. "She was admitted over at St. Mungos this morning. What on earth could you need her for?"

Instead of answering Harry let out a panicked noise and left the hospital wing to track down Hermione and Ron. He nearly ran into them while bolting around a corner.

"Harry! We've been looking for you." Hermione exclaimed, but before she could continue, Harry interrupted.

"He's got Sirius," He breathed. "I saw it. There's a room in the Department of Mysteries full of shelves covered in these little glass balls and they're at the end of row ninety-seven—he's trying to use Sirius to get whatever it is he wants from in there."

Ron went deathly pale by the end of Harry's rant, but Hermione's brow furrowed. "Harry, are you _sure_? Are you completely positive that you weren't just dreaming?"

Harry bristled, his panic ratcheting his other emotions to new heights. "I know the difference between a dream and reality, Hermione. And even if it is, am I supposed to just ignore it on the off chance that I had a vision— _in the middle of the day_ —that turns out to be wrong? What if I'm right and Sirius is being tortured this very moment? Hermione, Voldemort said he'd kill him. He's the only family I've got left!" Harry shook his head, anger dissipated into anxiety. "I can't take that chance."

Ron bit his lip. "I'm with Harry, 'Mione. Sirius's brother was a Death Eater, wasn't he? Maybe he told Sirius the secret of how to get the weapon!"

Clearly torn, Hermione sighed. The furrow between her brows had yet to smooth. "Then we have an even bigger problem on our hands. But we need proof. We can't just go galloping off without a plan. No offense, Harry, but you _do_ have a saving-people thing, and Voldemort knows it. He might be using this to get to you."

"So what if he is?" Harry burst out, angry. "I'm just supposed to let Sirius die? I don't remember you having a problem with my _saving-people thing_ when it was you I was saving from the dementors!"

Before Hermione could respond, a familiar head of red hair popped out from around the corner. "So you admit you have saving-people thing then?"

Harry blinked as Ginny rounded the corner with Luna at her side. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough," Ginny replied as she crossed her arms. "And if Sirius is in trouble, we want to help." She finished firmly, as if daring Harry to disagree.

Harry didn't.

"We need to contact the Order." Harry said immediately. A quick glance at Hermione showed that she was, however reluctantly, on board as well.

"If we firecall the Order's safe house, that'll be the easiest way to tell if Sirius is really been taken." Ron answered with a grim nod.

"Umbridge has the only floo that isn't being monitored. We'll have to sneak into her office." Hermione pursed her lips in displeasure.

Ginny grinned. "Sounds like fun. I'm in."

§

️

It was three hours later, after an unhelpful and frankly terrifying conversation with Kreacher, a close call with Umbridge's expertise with the Cruciatus, absolutely nohelp from Snape, an ingenious plan from Hermione, and a run-in with the centaurs, before they left for the ministry. After, of course, Harry and Luna helped everyone, and Neville—who'd been caught by the Inquisitorial Squad as well—onto their thestrals.

Though they tended to be more timid, thestrals were _fast_. Harry couldn't help but compare it to his Firebolt, and was both impressed and disappointed to find that it just...didn't measure up to the speed of the thestrals.

Soon, because even though Harry protested that it was dangerous, they had all stated firmly that they were coming with him whether he liked it or not, all six of them were racing down the Department of Mysteries, little tags that declared 'Rescue Mission' stuck to their shirts. They passed through some very odd rooms—one was full of time-turners, and another held only an archway with a tattered veil hung in it that Harry felt strangely drawn to—but eventually they found the one they were looking for.

Harry couldn't help but freeze when he stepped into the room full of glass orbs. It was dark and eerie in his dreams, yes, but it felt much more ominous now.

He swallowed and forced his feet to move. "Row 97. C'mon!"

The group of teens bolted down the columns of luminous orbs, wands at the ready with Hermione, Harry, and Luna lighting the way. Harry's eyes locked onto the plaques on the end of the shelves and he counted them off under his breath as he walked.

"91...93...95…" He skidded to a stop at between shelves 96 and 97. There was nothing there. Harry's heart thudded loudly in his ears, his entire body feeling cold and bloodless. "H-He was right here. They were right here!" Harry turned back to the others desperately,

Hermione's expression had become stony, while Ron and Ginny just looked confused. Neville wasn't looking at Harry at all. Harry followed Neville's gaze to the shelf, at the very end of which was another orb, except this one seemed to be whispering. "Harry," Neville breathed. "Harry, it's got your name on it."

Now that Neville had drawn his attention to it, Harry could make out a voice there. It sounded strangely like—

" _Harry_ …"

"My name?" Harry murmured as he wandered closer, unable to help himself. He peered at the glass, and then at the tag beneath it, which read ' **S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D | Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter** '. As he drew closer, the whispering cleared until a raspy voice was emanating from the orb

" _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..._ "

Entranced, Harry shivered as the voice trailed off into a hiss at the end. He slowly reached out, hefted the orb into his palm, and watched as its glow dimmed slightly once it had left the shelf.

Hermione's panicked voice came from behind him. "Harry—!"

Blinding red light erupted from every side of them, and in seconds Harry was standing alone, his friends slumped unconscious on the floor. Harry snapped back the present and raised his wand, but it was too late. They were surrounded by Death Eaters, who quickly took hold of all his stunned friends, wands to their throats. Harry whirled around on the spot as he tried to pinpoint all of them at once, but it was useless. There was no way he could take them all at once, especially not by himself.

"I appreciate your cooperation, Potter." A familiar voice hummed.

Harry spun on heel yet again, the glass ball cradled close to his chest. His eyes widened as he saw two more Death Eaters emerge from the shadows; one was a woman with a wild mane of black, curly hair, and the other was—

"Barty Crouch," Harry gaped, shocked. He shook his head to regain himself as the man smiled at him.

"Junior. Though I don't suppose that matters much now, seeing as the Senior is dead. But I didn't come here to chat, I'm afraid." Barty motioned to the orb. "I'm going to need you to hand that over, Potter. Now." He extended a hand, palm up, while the other held his wand threateningly towards the other five teenagers.

"Or what?" Harry challenged with narrow eyes. "What is this thing? Why does Voldemort want it so bad?"

The woman who stood beside Barty went still. "You dare speak his name?" She hissed, eyes wild and crazed. "You aren't worthy of it, you filthy half-blood!"

Harry bristled, the adrenaline now laced through his blood making him bold. "You know that Voldemort's a half-blood, too." When the woman's face contorted into something ugly, Harry continued, tone entirely too nonchalant. "Yeah, his mother was a witch but his dad was a Muggle—or has he been telling you lot that he's a pure-blood?"

The woman yowled out something fierce, her wand abruptly raised in his direction. Barty lost his blithe demeanor and snarled as he yanked her arm back down. "Shut _up_ , you banshee!" He bellowed as she hissed and spat in his grip. "Need I remind you of what awaits you should you mess this up, Bellatrix?"

That seemed to do the trick. The woman—Bellatrix—abruptly went still and quiet, eyes wide. She yanked her arm out of Barty's grip with a growl, but didn't move again. Barty nodded in satisfaction and turned his attention back to Harry.

"Now give that to me, Potter. Or else." Barty demanded cheerfully, his smile back now that he didn't have Bellatrix screeching in his ear.

"Or else what?" Harry repeated scathingly as he tried to discreetly look for an opening. There was none.

Barty tipped his head at Harry and stared at him for a moment. Then, with a jerk of his head, Ron was manhandled until he was front and center, the Death Eater's wand now dug harshly into Ron's neck. Barty hummed as Harry's gaze zeroed in on his friend, antsy. "That one dies, of course."

Trapped and panicked, Harry shifted his feet and snarled. He gripped the orb tighter. "Do anything to him and I shatter this!"

Gleaming brown eyes flashed in something like pleased surprise, but Barty's grin was anything but pleasant. "I refuse to negotiate with children who can't tell dreams from reality." He smirked when Harry went pale. "You do anything to that and they _all_ die. I imagine they mean a bit more to you than that little ball does."

Harry's mouth twisted, frustrated at his own helplessness, because this was one of the very few times where his friends were in danger and he couldn't do _anything_.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry asked in return, determined to get some information, at least.

"Give it to me," Barty replied easily. When Harry opened his mouth again to protest, he narrowed his eyes. " _Give it to me_. I will not ask again, Potter."

Licking his lips nervously, Harry glanced at his unconscious friends once more before letting out a shaky breath. Ever so slowly, he extended his hand until it was directly over Barty's, then dropped the orb into it. It went completely dark.

Barty grinned and looked the ball over once, just to make sure it truly wasn't damaged, then pocketed it. He twisted his wand idly and laughed. "Sirius Black is under the Order's protections—we had no way to get to him. Bellatrix had the elf lie to you to make sure our Lord's story was sold well. Your beloved godfather is safe, Potter." Barty assured him. He glanced up with a smirk. "I can't say the same for you, however."

Before Harry could react, Barty had jerked his wand to the right and fired a blast of red light into his face. The world went dark.

The Order would arrive fifteen minutes later, to find not a trace of any Death Eaters or Harry Potter, save for four unconscious bodies lying between shelves 96 and 97, the prophecy gone. Thanks to Barty, it would be fifteen minutes too late.


	2. Change of Plans

Barty strode through the halls of Malfoy Manor while two inert and bound bodies floated just behind him, the prophecy in his pocket and an irritated Bellatrix at his side. He felt like singing. His Lord would be verypleased.

He turned his head slightly to the rest of his party. "Dolohov, take the other one down to the dungeons, will you? Join us in the parlor once you're done."

"I should be the one to give it to him," Bellatrix spat for the umpteenth time after Antonin had left.

"Seeing as you did nothing but stand there and act like an amatuer, I don't see why you should. I did all the work, after all." Barty retorted, but a smile twitched at his lips. Not even Bellatrix's competitiveness could ruin his mood just then.

"The boy, then. I deserve that, _at least_."

"What, for rotting in Azkaban for fourteen years? Loyalty means nothing if you don't do something with it, Bella. Even your ostracized cousin escaped before you did. And since then, what have you done for our Lord?"

Bellatrix turned a rather intriguing shade of scarlet, but before she could shriek out an indignant reply, they reached the meeting room. Barty swiped his wand through the air and the doors fell open to reveal a dimly lit parlor, a long, dark oak table set in the middle of it. A fire roared just behind the head of the table, a large viper curled up on the hearth. The rest of the Death Eaters who had not been given the privilege of going on their mission were already sat down around the table.

Lord Voldemort sat at the head of the table with his fingers templed against his lips. Those dark, crimson eyes sparked when they landed on Barty, and then widened ever-so-slightly when they caught sight of the body hovering just behind him.

The serpentine man rose slowly from his seat, and Barty fell to one knee immediately, head bowed. "My Lord. I have done what you asked."

"And more than, it would seem," Voldemort murmured as he made his way down the table to his kneeling servant. He stopped in front of Barty, though his eyes were still trained on the prone form of Harry Potter. "The prophecy?" Voldemort tore his eyes away from the boy to focus on the little glass orb that Barty pulled out of his pocket and deposited in his Lord's waiting hand. After a moment, long, pale fingers carded fondly through Barty's sandy hair. "You've done well, Bartimaeus." He praised softly with an eerie smile.

Barty subtly preened. He stood when his Lord motioned for him to rise and met his gaze without fear.

Voldemort hummed and turned from his soldier to address the rest of the room. "The rest of you are dismissed." His lipless mouth twitched as everyone stood and hastily began to comply with his order. "Except you, Severus. It is only fitting that you stay."

Severus froze where he stood, then nodded a bit stiffly and remained where he was. If anyone thought it odd that Voldemort was being surprisingly nonchalant about having his enemy captured and bound in front of him, they didn't show it. Then again, perhaps that was just because they were all trying to escape the room as quickly as possible. All of them, save Bellatrix, who lingered by the door until Voldemort shot her a sharp look.

"Bring the boy, Bartimaeus. Set him on the table." Voldemort said once everyone had left. Barty nodded and flung Harry down onto the table with a flick of his wand, the ropes around him abruptly lashing him to the tabletop. Voldemort gave a faint smirk, but focused back on the matter at hand as he cracked the prophecy against wood. A faint, wispy figure of Sybil Trelawney drifted out of the orb and left it completely devoid of light.

" _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…_ "

Yes, Severus had told him this part. It was the rest of the prophecy that held his interest, however, and he listened intently as the Seer droned on, though his eyes were now trained on the very boy of whom the prophecy spoke, who was now beginning to stir.

" _And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…" Voldemort tilted his head curiously. "and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_ "

Trelawney fell silent and disappeared in a puff of bluish smoke. Voldemort ventured closer to the boy, but paused by the edge of the table as he let out a pained groan and started to shift in discomfort.

Barty was also watching him, an almost pensive look on his face. Severus just looked paler than usual.

"It is very strange," Voldemort murmured after another moment of silence. His scarlet eyes roved over Harry's face; a face which was contorted in misery despite not being awake. "Our… _connection_. How he suffers when I am near. How I can feel his emotions at times, how I can make him see whatever I like, no matter what the distance…"

"Yes. Strange." Severus allowed with a nod, his lips twisted in displeasure.

"My Lord," Barty whispered after a moment, eyes wide and a bit glazed. He was no longer looking at Harry, but at the snake curled up next to the fireplace. His tongue darted out to the corner of his mouth in a habitual way that showed he was thinking deeply. "I have a theory." He turned his gaze back to Harry with an almost wild look.

"Yes?" Voldemort mused without looking at him.

"Nagini, my Lord. Perhaps your familiar shares a bit more similarity to Potter than just a language. His connection to you is—" Barty flicked his eyes to Snape warily, but shifted and gathered his wits. " _Reminiscent_ of hers, is it not?"

Voldemort went still. "What are insinuating, Bartimaeus? Be clear. I am sure Severus knows that everything spoken of in this room is not to leave it. Don't you, Severus?"

The potions master dipped his head. "Of course, my Lord. I will not breathe a word of this."

Barty sent him a brief but irritated glare. "Then I will be blunt, my Lord. I think Potter may be a horcrux." He kept an eye on Snape, whose face was carefully blank. "He can speak Parseltongue, a language only blessed to Slytherin's descendents. He can tap briefly into your mind and emotions, and you can do the same to him—hence tonight's success. He feels pain when you're in any near vicinity of him, and I doubt that it's just a side effect of a rebounded killing curse. Whatever you had done that night in Godric's Hollow, with killing Potter's parents and Lily Potter's protective magic, it could have been the ritualistic equivalent of what is needed to create a horcrux." Barty stepped a bit closer and twitched again. "My Lord, if I am correct, that means that you've created—"

"A human horcrux." Voldemort breathed, eyes wide as they locked onto the scar peeking out just beneath Harry's fringe.

"My Lord, as incredible of a feat as that is, does this not pose a rather prominent problem?" Severus said after a moment of careful deliberation. To his credit, he'd maintained his composure throughout the entire conversation. "If Potter does in fact carry...a piece of your soul, then that means he cannot be killed. Not unless you're prepared to dispose of that fraction of yourself as well." He pointed out.

Frustration bubbled up over the awe that had arisen at his own prowess, and Voldemort cut his siam gaze down at the boy. Though it annoyed him, Severus was right. They couldn't kill the boy without destroying the soul piece inside, which Voldemort was very unwilling to do.

However, Barty, wonderful Barty, was quick to the jump. "Then we remove it. Once the piece of your soul within Potter is gone, we can put it in something else and execute the boy then."

"How does one remove a horcrux?" Severus mumbled, wary of being too curious.

"Remorse," Voldemort murmured as he reached out a hand to hover over Harry's scar. "One must feel real and true remorse for what they've done. That's the only way I've found that can successfully reverse the ritual of creating a horcrux. However, it has a very low chance of success, as it is more likely to kill the boy or myself in the process."

"Then perhaps, we use a… _cruder_ method, my Lord." Barty suggested with a low look. "A more surgical extraction, if you will." His tongue darted out once more, a quick flash of pale pink.

"What, you mean trying to go in and pry the horcrux from Potter's soul itself? Would that not be just as dangerous?" Severus shot back, just shy of scathing.

"That is exactly what I meant." Barty retorted.

Voldemort silenced them both with a quiet hum. "The idea has merit. Done carefully, I should be able to enter his mind and bypass it to access his core. From there I should be able to coax my soul back from him, and replace it somewhere else."

Barty inclined his head with a smile. Severus pursed his lips.

"But first," Voldemort's mouth twitched upwards. "We must wake him up."

§

️

Harry groaned and lolled his head to the side, a steady thud of ache in the back of his skull. He blinked his eyes open blearily, and squinted. It was blurry and dark. Not a good sign.

Unlike most times when he'd been knocked out, he didn't wake up too disoriented. No, Harry remembered his fuck up at the ministry quite clearly, and could only think, in his very dizzy mind, that it was odd that he wasn't dead yet. Hadn't he been taken to Voldemort? Did Voldemort want to duel again, just to prove that hewas superior to the so-called Chosen One, and that the night in the graveyard was a fluke? Or was it something far more sinister? Perhaps the Dark Lord had decided that just killing Harry wasn't enough anymore—that he wanted to make Harry suffer.

"There you are," An amused voice—Barty's—chirped.

Harry jolted and hurriedly scrambled into a sitting position, only to realize he couldn't draw his wand because one, his hands were tied behind his back, and two; they'd taken it off him.

The world abruptly sharpened back into focus as cool metal was pressed to his face, and he recoiled, blinked rapidly, and stared as Barty's grinning visage slowly backed away from him to stand next to his master.

Voldemort was as impossibly tall and intimidating as the last time Harry had seen him, though now he held himself with much more poise. Harry guessed it came with getting used to his new body. Those sanguine eyes stared at him with something idling between calm disdain and reluctant curiosity, and Voldemort tipped his head at Harry before speaking.

"Harry Potter...We meet again. I should thank you for giving me the means to retrieve the prophecy, but I'm afraid we're short on time."

"Where are my friends? What have you done with them?" Harry spat as he struggled to slip his wrists out of the ropes.

Voldemort's answering smile was not at all encouraging, but it was Barty who answered. "They're safe, Potter," He drawled, then glanced down at the boy with a slight smirk. "For now."

Harry grit his teeth and glared at Barty for a moment before turning his attention to his surroundings. "Where am I? Why haven't you…" He trailed off with a harsh swallow, mouth dry. His eyes locked onto Snape, who stood in the shadows just behind Voldemort, and widened. Harry set his jaw and scowled. "Why haven't you killed me?"

"Killing you as you are would be more detrimental than helpful, at this point." Voldemort answered matter-of-factly as he stepped towards Harry.

"W-What do you mean, as I am?" Harry sputtered, shoes shoving against the ground to scoot him away from the Dark Lord's advance.

"There is something that needs to be done before you can be eliminated," Voldemort murmured. He caught Harry by the hair before the teen could slide away. Harry hissed like an angry cat and struggled harder. "I'm sure you're aware of the strangeness of our connection by now."

Harry stilled abruptly, eyes wide and blazing. "You sent me that bloody nightmare just to lure me to the ministry!" He shook his head roughly to try and dislodge Voldemort's grip on his hair. "I've seen you murder people, I've watched you torture your own followers—some leader you are."

Those dim red eyes flashed in something of annoyance and intrigue, and then sharp nails were digging into his scalp. Harry yelped and froze, head tilted awkwardly to ease the pressure as Voldemort raised a brow at him.

"I intend to break it."

Now very thrown, Harry blinked owlishly at the Dark Lord. He raised an eyebrow himself, then slumped, mouth in the shape of a surprised 'O' as he realized. "You can't kill me with our link still intact. _That's_ why I'm still alive."

That lipless mouth twisted in frustration, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Harry before finally releasing his hair and straightening once more. "For now." He looked away from Harry towards Snape. "Severus, if you would?"

"Of course, my Lord." Snape murmured as he revealed a bowl hidden within the folds of his cloak. It was filled with a horribly familiar silver substance, the sickly sweet scent of it invading Harry's nose as his eyes widened.

"No— _No_. Whatever you're planning to do with that, keep it away from me." Harry began to push himself back once more, extremely alarmed.

"Ah, yes," Voldemort mused airily as he took the bowl from Snape's hands. He dipped a single, claw-tipped finger into it, then retracted to touch the pad of it to his thumb. Smearing the mirrory, now slightly gelatinous substance between his fingers, Voldemort smirked. "You would be familiar with this particular tool, wouldn't you, Harry? You happened upon myself in the Forbidden Forest in your first year, using it to its full extent. Such _captivating_ creatures, unicorns." Voldemort sent Harry a wicked smile that twisted his insides into nauseating knots.

"So, what? You curse me with unicorn blood and that'll miraculously sever our connection?" Harry snarled sarcastically. He let out a startled grunt when his back met the wall and stopped his subtle escape in its tracks.

"Oh no, of course not," Voldemort swept forward, that terrible smile still curled at the corners of his mouth.

"So crude, Potter." Barty crooned from behind the Dark Lord.

"No. I intend to rip it out of you. Slowly. _Painfully_. Until you are begging for death; which, if all goes well, I shall grant you."

Harry's complexion turned pallid and his lips pressed into a tight line, eyes wide in unease. Voldemort used the boy's brief shock to reach forward and swipe his bloodstained thumb across his mouth, smearing the metallic liquid onto the plushness of Harry's lower lip. When he realized what had happened, Harry jerked his head away and let out a panicked, furious shout.

The blood glinting on his lips dripped until it pooled at the corner of his mouth. A cold, prickly, numbing sensation began to spread out from the spot and in the span of a minute, Harry couldn't feel the lower half of his face. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, and his teeth buzzed with something icy that felt oddly like starlight.

Voldemort regarded the now mute form of his foe with a hum. "Much better. Now, let's see…"

He reached down again and wrapped his hand around Harry's throat. Letting his own magic seep down into the fluttering pulse beneath his palm, the Dark Lord closed his eyes and latched on to the trickle of curse magic that was bleeding through Harry's veins.

It swirled and twisted until it leaked out into his chest cavity, where his heart beat frantically, fearfully, in the cage of his ribs. Voldemort huffed and pushed his magic along the path of the curse as—

There.

A blinding light, much brighter than the unicorn's curse itself, sat innocently at the crest of Harry's collarbones. Within it, Voldemort could feel it. His soul. It was like a void in the ball of light, a speck of absence in something much bigger than itself.

' _Come_ ,' He cooed into the Chosen One's chest. _'Come to me. Rejoin your own_.'

The speck of soul—that glaring absence of light—did no such thing. Instead of rising up to meet him, eager to be reunited, like it should have, it hissed and burrowed more deeply into the light as if seeking warmth. It recoiled from his presence rather than welcomed it.

Voldemort was so startled by the realization that a piece of his soul had just _rejected_ him, that he lost his hold on the magic of the curse and was flung out of the boy's chest and into reality.

"My Lord?"

The serpentine man snapped out of his shock, crimson eyes wide, and hastily released Harry's throat to step away from him. Loosing a furious hiss into the air that made the other occupants of the room wince, Voldemort turned and stalked out of the room, a snarled, "Heal him." The announcement of his exit.


End file.
